Strel could feel his body rebelling against itself. He could feel the sands of time slipping from his hourglass and knew that it was a matter of time before he gave up and his lungs no longer drew in pure oxygen to filter through his blood. He was as prepared as he could be and he knew that he had better get all the things together. In case he did die, and in case he did not, he would have something there for people to reference when he did move on. He had been so tired lately and his body no longer truly yearned for food; he had forced himself to eat now and then, when his body was willing to push out and hunt or scavenge. It was too hard now, and he knew it was time to seek the only help he needed. His hands no longer felt quite right and the cloth did not draw him as it had once done. He remembered what it was like to stare for hours at his work and watch a masterpiece of cotton and thread come together.

Niro could read and write, which was something he had never bothered to learn aside from basic words for his trade. Oh, his clothes.. He mourned for the loss of them. Still, he slowly walked, all his energy directed at moving carefully to where he knew the man would be. If he was not up to the task, perhaps one of Vigilante's kids would help, not that he knew the newest batch of them, of course. Leroy's get would know how to read and right, maybe Mara would help. "Amaranth," he said sharply, surprised by the fierceness of his voice as he sought the woman. He knew he was a sight to see, with his eyes yellowing and his appearance frumpy. At least he was clean and did not reek of neglect. "Amaranth," he called again, more intently than before.

She came and he gave her a tired smile. It pulled at his lips until it stretched as wide as it would go. It felt odd, to be smiling; his face felt tight even as his flesh felt loose around his bones. A hand supported him as he leaned against a wall, arm extended to keep him standing. "There you are," he said with the easy familiarity of an uncle seeking one of his nieces. That's what Amaranth was, wasn't she? He had been around when she was growing up and he had been the one to outfit her from her youth. Now, he was coming to the young child grown tall and proud with his final requests. "How are you?" he asked the daughter of his first infatuation. Leroy.. would he be proud of the girl child he had brought into the world? Was he even still alive?

"I need something of you," he said, cutting to the chase. His time was precious to him now and he had no time to beat around the bush. Time was slipping from his hands and there was no possibility of more. He gestured a hand back to his studio on the first floor, where he had the supplies he needed laying around somewhere. "Will you do an old man a favor?"

He smiled at her, apologetic to the fullest. He knew this was hardly an easy time for her, but it was not an easy time for him either. It was going to be rough for them both, but he knew that she would be worse off between the two of them. He was calm as he put out the few papers and the charcoal he had left. It was smudgy material but he had nothing better. Ink was hard to come by; he had only ever heard of it and it was not something he knew how to make.

"I'm sorry, dear one," he began, sitting himself down in one of the two chairs in the room. "But I need you to write something for me, a will." It was a human thing, but he had heard about it. It was what he needed, to protect the memories that would be left without him to protect. "I'm sorry for making you do it, but I don't know anyone else who can help me." He rubbed at his neck, eyes hurting. They were going too; it was his fault for staring at cloth in the darkening days. "I don't want my mural ruined.. You understand."